Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)

“Ooooooo-kaaaayy . . .” Monica uncomfortably attempted to organize the papers on her desk.

I just stood there while a thousand thoughts scattered to the floor of my brain. In the split second before Monica spoke again, I reasoned maybe his brother’s name was Spencer and Bo was standing in - even though he didn’t mention a brother the other night - or this must be some sort of mistake. Judging by his complexion, and his inability to say my name without stuttering, I gathered it was neither of these reasons.

Monica swept papers off her desk with little regard to their order. “So, I’ll let you two talk. Anything I have to say can wait ‘till the meeting.” She said this with such professionalism that anyone walking by wouldn’t have noticed the five-ton elephant in the room.

“Excuse me.” Monica slid past Bo (or Spencer), forcing him in to the room a little ways and placing us in a close proximity. Not more than 48 hours ago, being this close to him had tantalized me. Right now, it made my muscles twitch with anxiety. Monica shut the door.

I walked around my chair and stood behind Monica’s desk, deliberately distancing myself from “Bo” so I could think clearly. It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d seen him in the daylight, rather than under the stage glow at Finnegan’s. He was slightly less fair-skinned than I’d previously assessed, but just as dreamy. Dreamy, November? Figure out what he’s doing here. I cleared my throat and stared directly at him, handcuffing his eyes to mine.

“November, you work here?” He looked as if he was really trying to work it out in his head.

Seriously? That’s the statement you’re opening with?

“Yeeees.” There was a slight inquisition in my voice, imploring him to feed the elephant in the room.

“Spencer, is it?”

“November, it’s my first name. It was my father’s name. My full name is Spencer Bowan Cavanaugh. David Bryson was supposed to handle the meeting here today, but he had a personal emergency, so he called me this morning to ask me to come here. The only information I was given was to come to The Hope Foundation and ask for Monica. What are the odds?” He spoke faster than normal - faster than necessary. I assumed he was anticipating any follow up questions I might have, which is why he offered up so much right away.

“Wait a minute, Monica said that Spencer Cavanaugh is one of the founders of DROP. You never told me you founded a non-profit agency.” I felt an annoying itch of betrayal.

Bo chuckled, “I’ll counter your wait-a-minute with my own. You never told me you were the grant writer for a very successful and stable non-profit.” My inner academic cheered a bit at his accentuation of “the” as if I was a prize to be sought. Damn straight.

Then, I was forced to address the issue of his ever changing name.

“So, Bo, that’s just for music?” I was no stranger to people using stage names, I just felt pissed about this one for reasons beyond my in-the-moment analysis.

For the first time since Monica shut the door, Bo took a step toward me. He sat in the chair I previously occupied. He rested his elbows on the desk, peering at me from his smoldering ocean blue eyes.

“Bowan, or Bo, is typically all the time, except for at the foundation - they call me Spencer. I use it there as homage to my father. I’ve been “Bo” my whole life. My parents were working on developing this organization when they died. Two years after their death, I gathered enough strength to continue what they started.” His tone was littered with something just slight of irritation as he sat back in the chair and finally met my stare.

“I’m sorry, Bo I was just taken by surprise.” My relieved exhale was louder than I’d intended, “I guess we didn’t really squeeze in time to discuss our jobs.” I grinned at the memory of all the things we did have time for. “Shit. The meeting. So, double agent, I’ll call you Spencer for the meeting?” I raised an eyebrow and he smiled.

“Knock knock!” Monica exaggerated as she carefully opened the door. Bo and I rose to greet her. “All set in here…or whatever?” Professional Monica was replaced by nosy Monica.

“Monica, this is Spencer Bowan Cavanaugh. Non-profit founder by day, musician by night.”

“Nice to meet you, Monica.” Bo stuck out his hand and Monica rolled her eyes.

“Shut up. I’ll get the details later. Right now we have a room full of people that need to meet you . . . Mr. Cavanaugh.” Her to-the-point humor made fast friends with my cynicism early in our friendship. It came in handy in times like these.